Locke 2 (Blackwater Boys #4)

Twenty

Locke

T he home smelled of mildew and decay when he entered in the dead of night. The air felt damp, and he understood why as he shined his torch light around the living space. There were cracks all along the foundation of the little townhome. Water lines decorated the walls, puddling at the very bottom of the distorted skirting boards.

His shoes crunched over random rubbish left behind. It did very much look like this mother had fled. Garbage bags were piled by the door. There was a mouldy smell of off food lingering in the kitchen. Cans of empty baked beans and old potatoes littered the small kitchen counter.

His men were already scouring the neighbouring towns, searching for her and the little boy. If they were out there, they’d find them soon.

And then what?

Locke thought of Kali. Once the boy was discovered, would she tell him to go? When she did—because he was certain she would—would he go?

His phone buzzed in his hand. He glimpsed the message from Charlotte.

What are you planning to do, Locke?

So, she found out where he was.

Like last time, she was trying to get in the way.

Charlotte needed to mind her own business. She’d done enough damage. It was so easy for her to wield judgement when she had her happy ending. Didn’t people like Locke deserve those, too? He wondered what his might look like. Wanting to abduct the woman you desperately desired to keep didn’t sound like the start of one’s token happy ending.

He ignored her message and continued to survey the tiny property. It was a shithole. He expected this. This mother hadn’t been able to hold down a job, and she was acquainted with unsavoury people. He gleaned that much within hours of being in this town.

There were two bedrooms. The first one was large and reeked of stale beer. There were grimy bed sheets on the floor and the beaten-up frame of a queen-sized bed, but no mattress. He found empty hangars and a rolled-up rug in the closet. He grabbed the rug and pulled it out, unravelling it on the floor. It was a grey hallway rug. Old, musty. He ran the light over it. There were crumbs and food stains—

Droplets of what looked like blood on one of the corners held his attention. He ran his fingers over it, frowning. Just droplets. Not a puddle. It didn’t mean anything, and why did he think it was blood anyway? It might be paint or juice—

Except it was reddish brown and he just had a feeling this mother didn’t add grape juice to her shopping list under the baked beans, crackers and potatoes.

Still.

It didn’t mean anything.

And yet he had visions of the mother coming at a little boy, screaming at him to get out of her fucking way. He imagined the little boy hiding. He would have found a spot in this tiny little home to call his own, and then he would spend it silently lost inside his own head.

He thought of Dominic just then, and an overwhelming feeling of despair drenched him. Dominic always brought out Locke’s protective side. When he looked at Dom, he saw the little boy within who grew up in rags. Long before prison, Dom’s body was riddled with cigarette burns and bruises that turned black inside his soul.

Dom deserved his happy ending, but that wasn’t going to happen. Dom was altered. There would be no bringing him back. There truly was a line that, once crossed, could erase all that was and could have been.

Locke left the bedroom and went to the last one at the end. This would be the boy’s room. He clasped the knob and went to open the door when the light caught something metallic, and he paused. His brows furrowed as he aimed the light halfway up the door at shoulder height.

At the metal contraption.

He recognised what he was staring at, though it took him a few seconds to accept it. He brushed his fingers along the cool surface.

A heavy padlock hasp.

No padlock dangled from it though.

She had locked her boy in here?

The question was obvious. Locke jolted back a moment, blinking rapidly as he accepted the answer repeatedly.

Yes.

Yes.

She would lock her boy in this bedroom.

Sudden dread formed at the pit of him. He waited for anger to follow.

Instead, it was misery.

He slowly turned the knob and opened the door to the little boy’s room. It swung away, slamming gently into the wall. He didn’t move. He shined the light in front of him, running his eyes along the room he no longer wanted to step into.

A story was about to be told.

And all he could think about was a black hole and three other little boys and rough hands.

Locke gritted his teeth and stepped inside the tiny room.